


Sherlock’s Laboratory, Episode 3: Lucky At Cards

by berlynn_wohl



Series: Sherlock's Laboratory [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Anal Sex, Clone Sex, Clones, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Foursome, Gangbang, Laboratories, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:03:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hmm,” said Sherlock, as he got comfortable on his hands and knees. “I’m thinking of a number between one and ten.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock’s Laboratory, Episode 3: Lucky At Cards

 

This is a fill for this [prompt on the kinkmeme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/12432.html?thread=65495184#t65495184) and [this prompt on the kinkmeme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/12826.html?thread=68362010#t68362010). Click on the links to read the NC-17 prompts; basically they involve Sherlock/multiple partners. In this case, it’s multiple Johns.

This fic contains references to [Sherlock’s Laboratory, Episode 1: Romance](http://berlynnsherlock.livejournal.com/13820.html#cutid1). It is not necessary to have read that story, but you probably should anyway. It’s pretty hot.

 

 

 

John had heard quite a variety of responses from Sherlock in all the various times he’d knocked on the door to the laboratory -- some of them entertainingly colourful -- but one response he’d never heard in that situation was “Come in.”

“Busy becoming even more of a genius in here!” was today’s response. Words to strike fear into the heart of any flatmate-slash-occasional-test-subject.

“Got a phone call from the Yard,” John called to the other side of the door. “It’s to do with--”

“The man who only kidnapped five of his eight offspring after his messy divorce from his alcoholic wife?”

John looked at his notes. He had scribbled “5 - 8?”

“The reason why is, he was only concerned about the five out of the eight that were _his_ ,” Sherlock continued. “His wife must have been very booze-addled indeed to think she could get away with it. He was a _geneticist_. That sort of thing wouldn’t get by him.”

John crumpled the paper in his fist. “But that doesn’t answer the question of where--”

“I hesitate to tell Interpol where the children are. To return them to England would be cruel; they’ve all taken to the sunny Mediterranean climate. _Now will you leave me in peace_?”

Hearing John’s footsteps recede from the door, Sherlock returned to his elaborate glassware. After reading extensively on a study conducted at Emory, about an attempt to construct a successful imitation of the NGF protein, Sherlock had decided it wouldn’t do any harm for him to whip up his own cocktail of amitriptyline, acetylcholine, dextroamphetamine, and an experimental synthesised version of orexin-A that an acquaintance had been using on laboratory mice. He hoped to produce a legal and inoffensive alternative to nicotine and…the other stimulants he’d employed in the past to improve brain function. Would he share his results with Emory, were he to succeed? Doubtful. Those plucky American boffins would get the hang of biochemistry eventually.

Having reached the point he’d been at when John had come pestering him, the only remaining question was, ingestion or injection? Sherlock disliked injection; too many old memories, associations. But he hadn’t designed it to be ingestible, only effective. He opened a cupboard and retrieved a syringe and hypodermic needle.

 

*****

 

A battered accordion folder sat on the table in front of him. Unsolved cases. Some were years old. Sherlock reached into a random section of the folder and pulled out the bundle of newspaper clippings and police reports contained within.

Jason McCrimmock. The missing Canadian tourist. Suspected of being one of the victims of the Knightsbridge Knife (whose body count was indeterminate on account of his tendency to choose gay teen runaways, whose whereabouts were always nebulous, in life and death). Despite his being the right build and sexual orientation, and having disappeared in the right district, on the right night of the week, Sherlock did not believe that McCrimmock was just another unfortunate blonde youth who approached the wrong bloke looking for some action. But he’d never been able to construct an alternate theory.

Until now. Looking over the list of contents of the gym bag McCrimmock left behind in his hotel room, Sherlock beheld the photocopy of a department store receipt and had an epiphany: The power converter. He’d assumed it was purchased to allow the boy to use his North American electronics whilst in the UK, and had paid it no further attention. But today, a quick Google search for the product code revealed that the device was for North-American-to-Europe conversion. England was just a stop on the way to the Continent, McCrimmock’s true destination!

A few phone calls got Sherlock the flight records for the night of McCrimmock’s disappearance, 21 February 2006. One was a red-eye to Budapest. No one on the flight was named McCrimmock. No one even possessed a Canadian passport. But that was neither here nor there when it came to cases like these. Sherlock himself _did_ have a Canadian passport. What stuck in his mind were the destination and the date. _Budapest, 2006_ , Sherlock chanted to himself. _Budapest, 2006_. A single call (albeit riddled with transfers) to Interpol, and Sherlock had wrangled all the information he needed about a series of similar but not yet officially linked murders in Hungary, beginning in June 2006 and with the last one occurring six weeks ago.

Jason McCrimmock hadn’t been a victim. He was the _perpetrator._ He’d fled Canada, perhaps hoping to leave his crimes behind, perhaps just in need of new hunting grounds. He’d deliberately set himself up as a victim of the highly publicised Knightsbridge Knife in order to erase his identity.

“Brilliant,” Sherlock said aloud, both to McCrimmock, wherever he was, and to himself. That was just the trial run, a miniscule 5cc’s of his formula. Imagine what he could do with a larger dose.

He made a second call to Interpol, and had a chat with Jeanne, whom he had just made friends with a few minutes previously, during his first call. Though the clearance codes he rattled off from memory didn’t hurt, Jeanne made no secret of how persuaded she was to help him just by the sound of his voice. Sherlock flirted back whilst making faces of disdain that she could not see. He had not expected to get an erection just then.

And this was no ordinary erection. This was a “John wants to experiment with orgasm denial” erection, except it had become that painfully urgent in a matter of seconds. Sherlock cut short the call and masturbated furiously at his desk; finding nothing more suitable nearby, he untucked one tail of his shirt and held it against the head of his cock, to prevent a mess.

But the satisfaction that came with a powerful orgasm lasted only a few seconds. He was still hard, and still just as desperate to come.

This was no longer something he wished to take care of alone. He left the lab and marched downstairs in search of John.

 

*****

 

“What has gotten into you?” John rolled onto his back, at last offering respite to his overtaxed muscles.  “You know two is my limit.”

Sherlock was certain that one more orgasm would settle him, and so excused himself to the shower for a final wank, and a bit of a think as well, if he could manage it.

Must have been the combination of acetylcholine and dextroamphetamine, he decided. They had stimulated an increase in norepinephrine; which was expected, though it had not occurred to Sherlock that his brain might not have been the only thing he would ultimately be stimulating. He would have to be careful about the circumstances under which he employed his cocktail in the future.

 

*****

 

Was using the cocktail “cheating?” Sherlock didn’t believe it was, precisely. After all, he’d spent years employing other stimulants to enhance his natural abilities. This was just turning the dial from 6 to 10. Well, perhaps not 10; after all, he hadn’t yet solved the case that John had blogged about under the title _The Adventure of the Network Engineer’s Thumb_. But 8, at least.

But although he did not consider it cheating, he was loath to employ his formula, finding it more satisfying to solve crimes using only what he’d been born with. The formula was for emergencies. Such as the night that Lestrade was abducted by a Russian-born crime-lord with a grudge, and held for ransom. Specifically, Yuri Ankudinov demanded the release of his indispensable right-hand man from Wandsworth Prison, and to ensure that this happened promptly, he buried Lestrade alive with approximately one hour of oxygen remaining.

To prove he had done it, he had a henchman dead-drop a video of the burial taking place. Care had obviously been taken to give no clues as to the location of the burial. The video was taken in extreme close-up, so no surrounding objects could be identified. The lighting was artificial, and the video was too shaky to get a good look at the soil, to guess at moisture or mineral content.

With a dozen Yarders gathered round him, Sherlock watched the two-minute video six times, and could make no determinations. Taking into account the time it had taken for Sherlock to get to NSY, Lestrade had possibly as much as forty minutes remaining. Explaining that he needed a brief walk to clear his mind, Sherlock snuck off to the loo and injected himself.

If, upon returning, he talked a bit faster, if his eyes were a bit clearer, and if anyone noticed these changes and frowned with suspicion, Sherlock did not care. Returning to the video, he now found it much clearer, much more finely detailed. At one minute thirty-eight, he paused it and re-played the last seven seconds. “They were using an electric light, not battery-powered. See that flickering? A brownout.”

Dimmock was the first to respond. “See it all the time during storms. Tree branches falling on power lines.”

“That couldn’t be it,” Donovan said. “The weather’s been clement. But it _could_ be the National Grid rerouting flow around transponder stations. Happens when they do maintenance on the lines.”

Sherlock found Donovan’s comment insightful, though he did not admit this. And anyway, the same possibility had already entered his own mind; she’d only gotten it out first because he was silently ranking the next six possibilities. “Call National Grid and ask where that’s gone on tonight.”

Donovan came back looking despondent. “No maintenance since three p.m.”

“The next likely suspect is metal thieves,” Sherlock said. “Call the local hospitals and find out if anyone’s been admitted in the last hour having been electrocuted.”

This time, the hope beaming from Donovan’s face lit up the faces of her colleagues as they saw her approaching. “Royal Marsden Hospital says they’ve got a young man who got zapped. He’s in A and E right now.”

“Sutton?” Sherlock said aloud, to himself. “Ah, but look at that soil.” He saw it on the screen now with a new clarity, and could hardly believe that minutes ago he’d considered it impossible to identify soil features. “Too chalky for Sutton. Has to be North Downs.”

Much chatter ensued about how this determination was only marginally helpful. Sherlock shouted them down and demanded silence whilst he watched the tape again. Or, more accurately, listened to it.

“That crackle,” Sherlock said finally.

No one else had heard it. They covered their ignorance with random guesses. “…A car?” said one constable.

“No, bigger,” Sherlock said. “That’s a train. It’s the HS1.”

Dimmock shook his head. “There must be _miles_ along the HS1 in the vicinity of North Downs where you could bring a bundle the size of a man and dig a hole big enough to bury him without anyone looking askance.”

“An abundance of options doesn’t mean they won’t choose carefully. They can’t leave evidence of a freshly-filled hole in the middle of nowhere, not when people will be out searching. But you _could_ do it at Medway. The Molas is doing new excavations around the Medway Monoliths, looking for more barrows. The profusion of holes in the ground would thwart search-and-rescue. That’s where you’ll find Lestrade.”

Sherlock stayed just long enough to hear the news that the Detective Inspector had been found safe and sound. No one was to be found in the vicinity, and NSY was no closer to the ultimate goal of capturing Ankudinov, but Sherlock’s main concern now was phoning John.

“I’m on my way home,” he said. John had been out, helping Mrs Hudson with some heavy lifting in the cafe, when Sherlock had gotten the alert from Donovan, and thus had no idea how close Lestrade had come to meeting his maker. “I have some instructions for you.”

“Let me get a pencil,” John said.

“No need. Just go upstairs to the lab.”

Sherlock listened. Based on the acoustics, John was in the kitchen. He anticipated forty-four footfalls, but then, when he heard that John was taking the stairs two at a time, reduced his estimate. Before John could tell him he was at the door, he continued, “Inside, in the northeast corner, there is a machine, cylindrical, seven feet high.”

“Right.”

“Do you see how it has a door, and to the right of the door there is a slot, like a coin-return slot? Place your index finger in the slot.”

“Alright, what does--OW! Jesus Christ, what was that? It drew blood!”

“Don’t be such a baby. Now, above that, there is a large green button. And next to that, an LED display with a keypad. Press the number two.”

“Done. The LED display says two.”

“Excellent. Press the green button and leave.”

“That’s all there is to it? What does this thing even do?”

“Go in to the bedroom and be ready for me in fifteen minutes.”

“Your machine’s intuitive interface might make Steve Jobs look like Rube Goldberg, but your seduction technique still leaves something to be desired.”

“Please, John.”

“Fine, fine. I can get myself in the mood, if you’re not up to the task.”

 

*****

 

A higher dose of his cocktail meant a longer period of “lucidity” (Sherlock’s private euphemism for “jacked to the eyeballs on brain-steroids”) before the libidinal side effects kicked in. He was on the stairs up to the flat when his erection began to demand attention. By the time he’d made it into the bedroom, he was ready to pass out from the insane amount of lust coursing through him, singing in his veins and making his stomach flip. He was already stark naked, having begun to discard his clothes on the landing.

Once in bed, Sherlock made some obvious indications that he desired the passive role that evening, and John indulged him. He vaguely recognised the same urgently randy behavior that Sherlock had displayed a few months previous, and though Sherlock had not revealed the existence of the cocktail, his request that John operate the machine in the laboratory fairly well confirmed John’s suspicions that it had something to do with an experiment. However, seeing as how Sherlock appeared not to have sprouted any new genital appendages, and having sex with him caused John no dizziness, headaches, nausea, shortness of breath, or drowsiness (WARNING, John thought amusedly, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO OPERATE HEAVY MACHINERY WHILST COPULATING WITH SHERLOCK HOLMES), he kept his mouth shut and got his leg over.

Being only human, and not so young as he used to be, John suspected about halfway through that this would be the only round for him for the evening, so he tried to make it a good one for Sherlock. He started talking dirty, which, he had learned recently and by accident, always enhanced Sherlock’s experience.

“You love this cock, don’t you,” he growled in Sherlock’s ear. “A bit of this just isn’t enough, I understand. You always want more of this cock.”

Sherlock responded to these accusations by climaxing loudly. But long after he had pumped all the fluid that his cock was going to give, it remained erect, and judging by the way Sherlock continued to rub it hard, it was not oversensitive at all but still aching with need. John viewed this with dismay, as he himself was now finished and well ready for sleep.

“Just give me a minute,” he croaked. “I’ll see what I can do for you here, once I’ve caught my breath.”

Sherlock looked at the clock, and smiled. “Don’t trouble yourself,” he said, just as John heard footsteps coming through the kitchen. “The reinforcements are here.”

Through the door walked another John Watson, and behind him, another John Watson. _Ah, of course_ , John thought, _what else could that machine have been_? Both of the new Johns were naked, and they brought with them into the room a strange but not unpleasant odor which could only be described as “that fresh-from-the-cloning-machine smell.”

“Please join us,” Sherlock entreated, and made a sweeping gesture to indicate any of the remaining space on the king-size bed. “Oh, here I knew we were having guests and I didn’t put the kettle on. How inconsiderate of me.”

“This again,” John sighed. “You’re not even going to give them a breaking-in period? You had _your_ clones for almost an entire day before you roped them into sexual servitude.”

“You think we’re not ready?” said one of the Johns. And then, to Sherlock: “How do you want us?”

Sherlock explained where he wished for his two new friends to position themselves, and then assumed the corresponding position himself.

One asked, “But which of us goes where?”

“Hmm,” said Sherlock, as he got comfortable on his hands and knees. “I’m thinking of a number between one and ten.”

“Eight.”    “Four.”

To the second John, Sherlock nodded in a come-hither fashion. “It was three. Mount up.”

As the winner positioned himself behind Sherlock’s enticingly upturned rump, Sherlock looked at the other with disdain. “Why would you choose _eight_?”

The original John watched, undecided about whether he should be aroused or horrified, as John2 knelt in front of Sherlock’s face and John3 casually stuck one finger into Sherlock’s arse.

“Hand me that lube, would you?” John3 said. “It needs a bit of refreshing back here.”

“Is all this really necessary?” John1 said as he handed the bottle over. “What’s happened to you?”

Sherlock grunted as John3 made his way inside. “I’m suffering from some temporary side effects of a formula of my own design.”

“Not a surprising or comforting answer in the least, just so you know.”

“Now is not the time for your social coaching,” Sherlock said. And that was the last thing he said for quite a while, as John2 was now rubbing the head of his cock over Sherlock’s plush lips. He got a handful of Sherlock’s hair to hold him still as he began to push inside. He wasn’t intending to shove in rudely, but on the other end of Sherlock, John3’s thrusts were propelling him forward, which ensured he got impaled both ways.

“Did you know, Americans call this a ‘London Bridge,’” John2 remarked.

“What the bloody hell for?” said John3.

“Americans think that Tower Bridge is called London Bridge.”

John3 kept up his end of the conversation admirably and never missed a thrust. “Ah. Well, can hardly judge them. Until last year, I thought ‘Walla Walla, Washington’ was something Bugs Bunny made up.” Without pulling out, he took up the bottle again and pumped it over Sherlock’s stretched rim, pushing the lube in with his cock until he found Sherlock’s insides suitably slick.

Thus lubricated, John3 could focus on the task of hitting Sherlock’s prostate, making his cock leak prodigiously whilst still untouched by his own hand. It bobbed with each thrust and dribbled onto the sheets, an echo of the drool seeping from the corners of his mouth. Sherlock had been propping himself on one hand, using the other to try to control how much cock got shoved down his throat. That left him without a spare hand to touch himself, and his frustration was beginning to show.

“Just take your hand off me and touch yourself, already,” John2 scolded. “You’re a poor judge of how much cock you can fit in your mouth, anyway.”

Sherlock surrendered, jerking himself until he spilled on the sheets. He twisted in ecstasy, driving himself back even harder onto John3’s prick.

John1 watched all this and tugged lightly at his own cock. He wasn’t able to get hard again quite yet, but he suspected he could soon be convinced. Jealousy was making him want to demonstrate to these two interlopers who Sherlock truly belonged to. But then again, should he even have been jealous? Technically, both of them were him.

As if reading the conflicted feelings of his progenitor, and sympathizing with them, John2 mused to Sherlock, “Did you really need to create us? I mean, I can see why one might need three _Sherlocks_ to achieve satisfaction…”

Sherlock shot him a glare, which he easily laughed off.  “Do you know that that withering look is much less effective when you’ve got a cock in your mouth?”

“Did you want to fuck him again?” John3 asked John1.

“I don’t know if I’m up for it yet, but if his cock’s going to stay hard, I wouldn’t mind having a piece of that.”

There seemed to be enough space between Sherlock and the mattress for John1 to crawl beneath and offer up his arse. The operation required cooperation on the part of his two new cohorts. John3’s pounding actually made it easier for John1 to lube Sherlock up, as each thrust pushed Sherlock’s increasingly slippery cock through John1’s fist. But then they had to hold still so that he could slide on his belly underneath Sherlock, and allow them to line themselves up, before John2 and John3 could resume rocking Sherlock back and forth between them, pushing his cock deeper into John1 as a pleasant side-effect.

“You got enough clearance down there?” John3 asked.

“It’s like trying to fuck under a bloody Humvee,” John1 grunted. “I sort of like it.”

“I’m almost finished back here,” John3 said casually, “then you two can fight over him. Here it comes…almost… _ahhhhh_ …yeah. Yeah, that was pretty sweet.” As he pulled out, he gave Sherlock’s hole one last nudge with his softening prick, like a goodbye kiss.

The two remaining contestants debated for a moment before deciding to disengage so they could flip Sherlock over. Sherlock allowed them to tug him this way and that to suit their needs, even until he was the wrong way round, with his feet on the pillows. Fatigue made him close his eyes, but he could discern which hands were the original John’s, _his_ John’s; they gripped more tightly, possessively. Thus rearranged, Sherlock was given back John 2’s cock to suckle, whilst his own pleasured John1.

“Gonna come,” John2 announced shortly thereafter.

From the sidelines, a smug but drowsy John3 said, “Don’t waste it there. Put it in his arse. All the cool kids are doing it.”

“Why not.” John2 extracted his cock from between Sherlock’s lips and shuffled on his knees to get behind John1 and between Sherlock’s legs. He reached under Sherlock to grip his arse and lift it into his lap. By now, Sherlock’s body offered little resistance. Eyes still closed, he listened to the respective slaps of bare flesh, two rhythms that never quite came together. He shivered sporadically, whenever he could recover sufficient energy.

“How does he feel?” John3 asked with a grin.

John2’s expression was unclear. “Like someone’s fucked him twice before me. Come on, Sherlock, squeeze hard around me. You’re sloppy and loose.”

Sherlock succumbed, then, to the effect that John1’s tight arsehole and all the casual, dirty chatter was having on him. The third time he came, it was dry, but still sweet and still not enough.

Thankfully, John2 remained happy to oblige him, though John1 was just about ready for another go-round himself. “Hurry up,” he called back to his compatriot. “I’m ready to fuck him again, and I’m still the boss around here.”

With each stroke, John2’s cock dragged out his predecessors’ come; it dried in the air or was smeared away, but Sherlock could still feel it on his thighs and his balls. He squirmed at the filthiness of himself.

“I said squeeze hard!” John2 snapped. “You’re no good to me otherwise.”

Sherlock did his best to comply, contracting his arsehole as hard as he could, until John2 groaned his approval and made his contribution. “All yours,” he said as he tilted sideways and collapsed on the bed.

Gently removing Sherlock’s still-hard cock from himself, John1 swung one leg back, then the other, planting himself between Sherlock’s damp, quivering thighs.

It was an incongruous and maddeningly erotic sight: Sherlock, sweaty, gasping for air that was thick with the smell of fucking, quaking with exhaustion, but with a freshly alert cock still stiff and pleading for more attention. John1 felt a sort of tingling, pleasant guilt to be so excited by the sight of this man, normally so proud and straight-laced, now fucked-out and used and _still_ unable to control his desires.

When he felt Sherlock’s insides, he groaned with disgusting, dirty pleasure. “Ah God, Sherlock, you are a _mess_. I shouldn’t even be in here.”

Sherlock wasn’t really listening. He was sodden with chemicals and beyond feeling pleasure. His arsehole spasmed with the effort of being so relentlessly stimulated, but still he needed more. Just one more would do, he was certain. He was trembling all over, his throat was sore, his jaw ached. There was only one part of him that wasn’t crying out for mercy -- one part that was still demanding more -- and it was the most insistent, drowning out the protests of every other bone and muscle. But he was certain that his John would satisfy him at last. “Fuck me,” Sherlock rasped. “Fuck just one more out of me.”

“Take it from me,” John1 commanded. “Squeeze me and take it.”

Sherlock whimpered, too weak even to convulse as a final orgasmic wave overtook him. John1, still squirming at the feel of the mess inside Sherlock, couldn’t help but come as well.

The bed became a damp tangle of languid limbs. All four men panted, limp, in the silence, feeling the cool air on the wetter parts of themselves.

“It’s so nice and quiet,” John1 said hoarsely, after a while.

“Isn’t it, though? Without him endlessly pontificating and spouting deductions until you want to strangle him. Perhaps this wasn’t such a bad idea, hm?”

“It’s definitely nice to have someone else to chat with for a change. Particularly someone that you have a lot in common with.” John1 chuckled at his own joke. Then he continued: “So what do we do now?” He was thinking of his clones’ limited life span, not without some melancholy.

John3, however, seemed unconcerned. Perhaps he was unaware. “What else can you do with a slut that filthy, but put him in the bath and scrub every inch of him.”

John2 lifted his head. “Inside and out?” he said enthusiastically.

“Inside and out,” John3 confirmed. “Might take hours. ‘Til he’s pink and raw and begging for mercy.”

Sherlock stared glassy-eyed at the ceiling.

“Good God,” John2 said, looking into Sherlock’s eyes. “Did we break him?”

“He’ll be fine,” John1 said. “You know, if Sherlock knew in advance that he’d be needing to call in reinforcements, I wonder why he didn’t recruit Lestrade? I always suspected he fancied him.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story comes from a joke about a man who goes to use the toilet at a pub. When he walks in, he sees a man bent over the sink, being fucked by another man. And that man is himself being fucked by yet another man. So our protagonist exits the toilet in a panic and tells the bartender what he saw. The bartender says, “Was the guy in the middle ginger, with a goatee?” “As a matter of fact, he was,” says our protagonist. The bartender says, “Yep, that’s Dave. He’s lucky at cards, as well.”


End file.
